


The Broken Road

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock decide to come out to the crew, but it doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Road

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally intended this to be a scene from a larger fic, but it looks like the larger fic is never going to be written. So instead, I turned this into a separate fic.
> 
> I also have to apologize for the action scenes in here. I'm not very good at writing starship battles, as it turns out.

Spock drifts out of sleep on the currents of several simultaneous sensations: the scratchy rustle of the blanket over his shoulder, the soothing hum of the ship beneath him, the warmth of the air held at just that perfect compromise between human and Vulcan tolerance…and the familiar, unmistakable brush of lips over the back of his neck.

Another soft kiss, a ghost of sensation over his bare skin, and Spock hums, shifting just enough to follow the curve of the arm currently curled around his waist. His fingers trace lean muscle, hard and corded with use, and the hand he eventually finds is dry and calloused, with a raised scar on the third knuckle its owner has yet to explain.

Not that Spock cares all that much about it at the moment, with the hard line of another body pressed against his own and another gentle, maddeningly-soft kiss to his neck.

He brings the hand up to bite at the inside of the wrist. “Jim,” he whispers.

He feels more than sees the smile against his skin. Lazy contentment only slightly dampened by the last vestiges of sleep floats to him across their contact, a warm, pleasant sensation not unlike sitting close to an open fire. “Good morning,” Jim murmurs, and slides his foot down the length of Spock’s calf.

Spock shivers and turns, sinking into his lover’s embrace. Jim welcomes the kiss, warm fingers curling in Spock’s hair as they taste each other, a slow, steady exploration as much a mapping as a journey. Jim’s morning breath truly leaves something to be desired but Spock can’t bring himself to care, seeking out the well-known taste underneath, everything inside him seeming to loosen and melt as he wraps himself up in his lover’s familiar, slightly woodsy scent.

He will never tire of waking up like this.

They pull back after a moment, both of them flushed. Spock reaches out to drag a thumb over the rough stubble dotting Jim’s chin. “Yes,” he says. “It is.”

He is rewarded with Jim’s eyes softening in the half-darkness. The warmth that rises in Spock’s chest at the sight is both familiar and welcome. He remembers the first time he saw those eyes, angry and defiant across a sea of red uniforms. At the time, Spock never could have imagined this brash, arrogant young cadet would one day become not only the best captain he has ever served under, but also the single most important person in his universe.

But it happened. Across three years and countless star systems, over mission briefs and crew conferences, chess games and shared meals, fights and laughter and desperate prayers choked out over blood-soaked uniforms, they finally made it here, together.

Seven months ago, when Jim abruptly swept all their chess pieces off the board and fixed Spock with that _look_ , hot and hungry and full of an emotion too sacred to name, Spock went without protest.

It was inevitable, really.

Now, Jim watches him from the warmth of the bed, eyes bright with a languid curiosity. “What’re you thinking about?” he asks. The slow, lazy cadence of his voice tells Spock he isn’t overly concerned about the answer, but looking at him, the calm trust in his eyes Spock knows only a privileged few ever get to see, he finds he wishes to speak only truth.

He hums and brings Jim’s hand up, brushing a soft kiss over the knuckles. “I am thinking,” he answers, “that it may be time the rest of the crew shared in our happiness, Jim.”

He sees it the moment the implication dawns on his lover by the way those blue eyes widen. Jim blinks and rises up on one elbow. “Holy shit, Spock. Really?”

“Yes,” Spock answers, and the hope that stutters down their skin-to-skin connection isn’t unexpected. They filed all the appropriate forms with Starfleet Command months ago, of course, but otherwise the only person on the _Enterprise_ who is aware of their relationship is Dr. McCoy, and that is only because the signature of the CMO was required to attest that their command decisions would not be affected by the newfound change in their relationship. Spock’s desire for privacy, and Jim’s desire to please Spock, have not allowed for anything more than that.

Now, though, after seven months of hastily-stolen kisses in turbolifts and soft brushes of hands beneath the concealment of conference tables, Spock finds he no longer wishes to keep their relationship secret. His love for Jim is a bright and beautiful thing, and it is nothing to be ashamed of.

Still propped up on one elbow, Jim tilts his head. “You don’t have to do this if you aren’t comfortable, Spock,” he says. “You know it doesn’t bother me, right? We could keep it under wraps for the rest of the mission and I wouldn’t care.”

“I know.” Spock reaches out to trace his thumb over the curve of Jim’s bottom lip, unable to suppress the small smile when his lover’s tongue darts out almost on reflex for a taste. “But it seems unfair to continue to keep something so important  from the crew, especially when they are so much like family.” He pauses, then deadpans, “And, of course, it is high time Nyota won that betting pool.”

Jim grins. “Which neither you nor I officially know about.”

“Indeed.”

“Well.” Jim licks his lips. “When do you wanna do it, then?”

And Spock has thought about that too. He does not want anything too lavish or extravagant, but neither does he think Dr. McCoy would survive it if he and Jim started making out in the middle of their next mission briefing. The doctor has made it very clear he does not want to hear anything even remotely hinting at their intimacy, and has more than once threatened violence against their persons when the subject of conversation has begun to stray in that particular direction.

“Ensign Chekov’s upcoming birthday celebration seems an apt environment for just such an endeavor.”

At that, his lover’s grin widens. “You wanna come out of the closet when our youngest crewmember finally turns twenty-one and gets completely shit-faced for the first time? Spock, you _devil._ ”

“The copious amount of alcohol consumption that inevitably accompanies such an event would likely mitigate the shock of our announcement. Furthermore, due to the aforementioned alcohol consumption, it is likely few crewmembers will actually remember our actions in the morning.”

Jim shrugs. “Makes sense.”

“And Dr. McCoy will undoubtedly be inebriated,” Spock adds, “which limits his likelihood of successfully separating my testicles from my person to 2.6%.”

That surprises a laugh out of his lover, warm and breathless. “Don’t worry, Spock,” Jim says, patting his shoulder, “I won’t let Bones castrate you. He knows I need all the plumbing in working order.”

“It is gratifying to see you have your priorities in order,” Spock deadpans, but allows Jim to pull him into a laughing kiss.

His lover’s eyes are bright when they finally pull back several moments later. “You know I love you, right?” he whispers.

His fingers trace the point of Spock’s ear, and Spock hums at the shivers of pleasure the touch sends down his spine. “Of that, Jim, I have no doubt.”

Jim smiles and kisses him again, and Spock allows his lover to press him back into the mattress and crawl on top of him, a solid, familiar weight. Time becomes irrelevant as they lose themselves in each other, in the rough slide of tongues and the brush of fingers over bare skin. It isn’t long before Jim shifts to press his growing erection into Spock’s thigh, and though the sensation sends a jolt of arousal through Spock’s own body, he forces himself to pull back and whisper, breathless, “Jim. We do not have time.”

“Bullshit,” his lover answers, peppering kisses along Spock’s jaw, and Spock can’t help but tilt his head back to grant him better access. “You just agreed to announce our relationship to the crew. We’ll _make_ time.”

“Jim—”

_Beep, beep, beep._

For a moment they can do nothing but lie there, listening to the steady pulse of the alarm. Then, finally, Jim sighs, a harsh exhalation against Spock’s throat as his head drops to Spock’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

Spock raises his eyebrow even though he knows Jim can’t see it. “Unfortunately not, if we are to report to the bridge on time. Computer, alarm off.”

The room falls silent. Jim shakes his head, darting in for another quick, fleeting kiss before heaving himself up from the bed, giving Spock a gratuitous—and, he suspects, deliberate—show as he starts picking his clothes up from the floor. Spock makes no effort to hide his observation. He will never tire of looking at Jim; whether in full uniform, covered in blood, or wearing nothing but a pair of boxers as he is now, Spock will always find him unerringly beautiful.

It doesn’t stop him from blinking when Jim turns and offers a hand. His lover just grins, tilting his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Save water, shower with a friend?”

“Our showers are sonic, Jim.”

The grin doesn’t fade. “Even so.”

Spock shakes his head, unable to keep the smile from his own face as he grasps Jim’s hand and allows himself to be pulled into the bathroom.

 

Twenty minutes later, they walk together toward the bridge, strides measured and even as usual. The twelve-inch distance maintained between them has never felt so great, but Spock tempers it by remembering their agreement. Chekov’s birthday party is in two days. Compared to seven months, it is no time at all.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it all through their shift. It’s unprofessional and also a rather alarming lapse of his usual Vulcan concentration, but they are currently at warp, en route to several days of run-of-the-mill star mapping until Command sees fit to assign them something more exciting. Spock allows his mind to wander, drawing up fond memories of the last several months as he watches Jim seated in the captain’s chair, completing reports on his padd and exchanging quiet conversations with the rest of the bridge crew. It’s familiar, and safe. Peaceful. Spock cannot imagine being anywhere else. How will they announce themselves two days from now? He will have to ask Jim later, when they—

The jolt comes out of nowhere, throwing him from his chair. Pain flares up when his hip impacts the floor as noise explodes around them: the wail of alarms, warnings from the computer, shouts from the other crewmembers—what in the world just happened—

“Spock!” Warm hands on his shoulders, and he looks up to see Jim peering down at him. He appears shaken but unhurt. “Are you okay?”

A quick assessment informs him nothing is broken. “I am adequate, Captain,” he answers, risking a quick squeeze of Jim’s hand as his lover helps him to his feet. “What happened?”

“We hit the tail end of a quasar pulse,” Sulu shouts from his console. “It jerked us out of warp.”

With another pat to Spock’s shoulder, Jim hurries back to the chair. “Chekov, where are we?”

“Approximately fifty-sewen lightyears from our destination, Keptin!”

Jim’s shoulders stiffen. “Fifty-seven…that would place us…”

“In Klingon space,” Chekov finishes, voice tight, and from her station Nyota mutters a curse in a language Spock doesn’t recognize.

“I’m not picking up any communications in the area, Captain,” she reports, “but that doesn’t mean— _shit!_ ”

The second impact is even harder than the first, but this time Spock is ready for it, bracing himself against the rocking of the ship as the red alert klaxons go off around them in a screaming cacophony. Jim staggers against the captain’s chair and grits out a curse, but Spock doesn’t answer, too busy focused on the three Klingon ships currently filling their viewscreen.

Somehow, he doesn’t think they are here as a welcoming committee.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the lead ship unleashes a barrage of torpedoes. An instant later, fresh impacts shake the ship. “Shields at forty percent!” Sulu shouts.

“Can we warp?” Jim demands.

“Negative, sir! Warp controls unresponsive!”

“Damnit. Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu!” Jim punches the comm button on his chair. “Scotty!”

“ _I’m workin’ on it, Cap’n! She’s taken a beating—auxiliary nacelles have been compromised! I’ll need a—_ ”

“Wait, auxiliary nacelles? I know those!” Jim spins on Spock. “You have the conn! Soon as we’re able to warp, you get us the fuck outta here, got it?”

And Spock knows he should say something, here in the midst of a battle they never asked for, but anything he could say, Jim already knows. So instead he just swallows and nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, and is rewarded with a brief, tight smile before Jim rushes into the turbolift.

Then the Klingons fire again, shaking the ship and sending a crack up the side of the wall. Spock grits his teeth, sinks into the captain’s chair, forces worried thoughts about Jim out of his mind, and does his job.

“Mr. Sulu, status report.”

“Shields at twenty-two percent. Returning fire now.”

“Kommender, life support on Decks Four and Fiwe are failing!”

“I’m sending distress signals out to all ‘Fleet vessels in the immediate vicinity. The _Dauntless_ is only twenty-two lightyears away—”

“ _Brace for impact!_ ”

Another collision rocks the ship, and Spock tightens his fingers on the arms of the chair. If they don’t get the warp core functioning again soon…

“Lieutenant Uhura, can we contact the Klingon vessels?”

“Tried that already, sir. It’s all _How dare you trespass on our borders_ and _We’re gonna kill you_ and all the usual bullshit.”

“Starboard phaser array overloaded! We’ll be torn apart at this rate, Commander!”

Spock hits the comm button. “Commander Scott, status of the warp core!”

Jim’s voice answers, and the rush of warmth that triggers in Spock is almost alarming in its intensity. “Working on it, Spock! Keenser, get me the plasma cutters—no, not the torch, the _cutters_ , you stupid green—ah! Got it!”

“We can warp?” Spock asks, and hears the tightening in Jim’s voice.

“Not yet, we’ll need about thirty seconds for the nacelles to recharge. Heading back to the bridge now!”

The connection cuts off, and Spock nods at Sulu. “Maximum warp the instant we have the capability, Lieutenant,” he says, “Mr. Chekov, can the ship withstand further attack?”

“Not for long, Kommender,” Chekov calls back, “Hull integrity on Deck Fiwe has been compromised—” Another earth-shaking impact. “Ah, hull breaches on Decks Four and Fiwe! We need to—”

“Warp core online!” Sulu shouts. “Hold on!”

Beneath them the _Enterprise_ shudders, a trembling roar as the stars outside lengthen into long white pins. The Klingon ships melt into mere after-images on the viewscreen as the klaxons shut off. Spock breathes deep in the sudden silence.

“Status report, Lieutenant,” he orders.

Sulu’s voice trembles when he replies, still taut with adrenaline. “Shields at three percent. Catastrophic structural damage on Deck Eight, and a radiation leak in Engineering that Commander Scott’s people are working to contain.”

Spock nods. “And the hull breaches?”

“Limited to Decks Four and Fiwe, Kommender,” Chekov says. “Automatic safety doors already locked.”

His words bring little comfort. A hull breach, however small, inevitably means only one thing: lost lives. Jim will take it hard.

As if on cue, the turbolift doors slide open with a hiss. Spock turns, already half out of his seat—and pauses when he sees Dr. McCoy step onto the bridge, looking harrowed. “I’ve got staff rounding up the injured now,” he says without preamble. “Anyone here need to be looked at?”

“I think I dislocated something,” Lieutenant Qutar says from her station, wincing as she presses at her shoulder. McCoy crosses to her immediately, taking out his tricorder on the way, but Spock suddenly can’t focus on him, looking instead at the turbolift, glaring in its emptiness.

Where is Jim?

Something cold and insidious slithers up his spine, and Spock quickly swallows it down, settling back into the chair. “Mr. Scott, is the captain still in Engineering?”

A burst of static preludes Scott’s answer, taut with stress. “ _No, he left a while ago. Why?_ ”

Spock frowns and doesn’t bother replying, instead calling out, “Computer, location of Captain Kirk.”

It takes the computer a few moments to answer, and when at last it does, Spock wishes it hadn’t. “ _Captain Kirk is not aboard the_ Enterprise _._ ”

All conversation in the room stops. Sulu and Chekov exchange wide-eyed looks. McCoy, who had been murmuring comforting words to Qutar, falls silent. The cold surges up in Spock again with a vengeance, and he cannot contain the tremble in his voice as he says, “Computer, last known location of the captain.”

Another two seconds of processing time, which feels more like two years. Then, at last, the flat, toneless words: “ _Captain Kirk last located on Deck Five._ ”

And everything stops.

The world fades out. Distantly, Spock is aware of Nyota’s shaky indrawn breath and the sharp clatter of McCoy’s tricorder hitting the floor, but they are mere echoes, afterthoughts. He can’t think. Jim is…Jim can’t be…

He stumbles from the chair, and thinks he might tell Sulu to take the conn but isn’t even sure of that—all he knows is that he has to get to Deck Five _now_. The bright lights of the turbolift are blinding, stabbing his eyes with their cruel intensity, and he tries three times unsuccessfully to input the command with shaking fingers before someone else steps in and does it for him.

Turning, he regards McCoy, face drawn and haggard, looking all of a sudden like an old man. The doctor ducks his head and shoves his hands in his pockets as the lights of passing decks flow by outside the lift doors. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “He’s gonna be okay, Spock. Just you wait. We’ll find him.”

But it sounds like a lie.

The journey takes an eternity, though it cannot be more than a few seconds at most. Deck Five is a bed of chaos when the doors finally open, crewmembers running back and forth, medical staff pushing gurneys and shouting orders and stats, emergency lights winking overhead. Spock finds he can barely move, everything slow and dream-like as the people jostle him back and forth, and at last it is McCoy who leads him through the crowd, one hand firm around Spock’s arm as his growling voice clears a path for them down the hall toward the back deck, toward the tightly-sealed doors cutting off the rest of the ship from the dead space of the breach.

The hallway is mostly empty by the time they reach the door. The two-foot-thick duranium gleams beautifully in the flashing emergency lights. Spock thinks he is going to be sick.

Somehow, he manages to force himself up to the twin portholes fixed in the door. His breath fogs the thick glass, and through the blurry white he sees the remainder of the deck beyond, a cold, barren wasteland of frozen metal and torn walls. In the far distance, a ragged hole the size of a standard-issue conference table reveals a peppering of stars, haunting in their stillness.

Spock swallows. There is a chance, right? In the event of a pressure drop, the doors seal shut automatically. Maybe Jim made it. Maybe the computer was wrong. Maybe—

Rushing footsteps behind them an instant before Nyota’s voice calls out, “Spock! Did you find him? Is the captain—”

A body slams up against the porthole and Spock jerks back, stumbling into the wall. Nyota gasps and McCoy makes a broken noise, and Spock stares up at the young lieutenant—Schova, he recalls, she’d worked in Botany, she was from Eastern Europe, had been so thrilled to finally be assigned to the ‘Fleet’s flagship…

Now she floats just outside the porthole, eyes open and unseeing, nothing but a frozen corpse. One of so many…so many lost… _Jim_ …

Something inside him flickers and dies. His legs give out and Spock sinks to the floor, covering his face with his hands. Everything is cold, as if it is not Schova but himself who has frozen. He remembers Jim as he was that morning, warm and pliant and alive. _You know I love you, right?_

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They were supposed to have years, decades together. They were supposed to go to Chekov’s birthday party, and Spock was supposed to press Jim against a table and kiss him, and the crew was supposed to cheer and Nyota was supposed to giggle and McCoy was supposed to choke on his drink and Jim was supposed to smile, that beautiful, private smile that never failed to set Spock’s heart thumping in his side, and it wasn’t…it isn’t…

Somewhere next to him, McCoy lets out a strangled noise that could be a sob. Spock curls in on himself and lets the tears flow, no longer caring that they can all see. Let them look. Let them know everything. It doesn’t matter anymore, because Jim is dead, he’s gone, and without him…

Further down the hall, Nyota turns away and bites out a curse in a choked voice, slamming her fist against a wall panel—

And a hatch slides open overhead with a hiss, dumping a body down into the hallway. Nyota yelps, jerking back against the wall, but Spock barely hears her, everything focusing in on the body, the _man_ with short blond hair and a gold command shirt—

A desperate, animal sound tears itself from his throat, a pure, primal call for his mate as he scrambles down the hallway, falling to his knees next to Jim—and it _is_ Jim, still and unmoving and clearly unconscious, but there is color to his skin, there is _life_ , and barely daring to breathe Spock presses trembling fingers to his lover’s neck, feeling, _praying_ …

And there it is: the soft beat of a pulse, dangerously slow yet wonderfully, beautifully _there_. Warmth bursts forth in Spock’s chest, a burning supernova filling the cold black space of his heart, and Spock reaches out and gathers his lover to him, pressing Jim close like a precious thing. Dimly he’s aware that he is speaking, soft trembling whispers that could be Standard or Vulcan or some combination of both: _You’re alive, I love you, Don’t ever leave me,_ Jim.

He’s not sure how long he remains there, clutching Jim’s unconscious body to his chest, but it is far too soon when footsteps approach and McCoy’s voice says, soft and professional with only a hint of a tremor, “Spock. I need to get him to sickbay.”

Spock barely even hears him at first, tightening his grip on Jim because if he lets go now then Jim will leave, will fade away and be _gone_ like Spock had feared he was only a few short moments ago, and he cannot go, Spock won’t let him, Spock can’t _live_ without him…

“Spock.” Fingers around his wrist, gentle but firm. “You need to let go, Spock.”

He turns to see the doctor watching him, hazel eyes soft and so understanding, and with a slow breath, Spock obeys. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, releasing Jim to McCoy and the gurney two techs have rushed down the hallway, and when he follows them to sickbay, McCoy doesn’t object. It is only when Spock attempts to tail them through the sliding doors that the doctor finally turns and stops him with a palm pressed against his chest.

“No, Commander. This is as far as you go.”

No. He cannot let Jim out of his sight, not now, not ever. “I must be with him—”

“We don’t know the extent of his injuries, or what he might have been exposed to when hull integrity was compromised,” McCoy says, slow and reasonable. “I need the room clean. Trust me, Spock. I’ll keep you appraised, okay?”

Spock swallows, eyes following Jim’s still form as a group of nurses and techs pushes the gurney further into sickbay. “I will remain here. You will inform me of any updates on Jim’s condition.”

“Of course, Spock.” And with one last, comforting pat to his shoulder, McCoy retreats into sickbay, doors sliding shut behind him.

Spock takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and clenching his fists. Jim is alive, he reminds himself, a mantra, a prayer. He is alive, and in good hands.

Straightening his back and fixing his gaze on the closed sickbay doors, Spock waits.

Nyota finds him there thirty minutes later. Spock doesn’t see her approach, continuing to watch the doors, but he recognizes the lightness of her footfalls and the floral scent of her perfume an instant before soft fingers brush his shoulder. “Spock.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Are you okay?”

Spock looks down. “I will be, once the captain has regained consciousness.”

“All right.” Nyota takes a breath. “Scotty and I retraced Kirk’s path. He must have sensed the impending breach, because he locked himself in the nearest Jeffries tube as soon as the alarms went off. Probably why the computer couldn’t locate him; no sensors in that part of the ship, you know?”

Spock’s answering silence doesn’t seem to deter her. He senses the smile in her words as she says, “Captain always was a quick thinker.”

He nods but does not reply. They stand there in silence for a few more moments, calm in solidarity. Spock gazes down at the thin sliver of light leaking through the bottom of the doors, watching the passing shadows as members of the staff move around inside. Are they helping Jim? Have they saved him yet?

Next to him, Nyota shifts and clears her throat. “So, um. How long, Spock?”

It is unlike her to be so vague, but Spock understands the question nonetheless. “Seven months, two weeks, and five days.”

“Oh.” Nyota blinks. “The captain was able to keep a lid on it for that long?”

Something tightens in Spock’s chest, and he snaps without thinking about it, “Jim is more than capable of maintaining privacy when he sets his mind to it.”

He regrets it the instant the words leave his mouth. Nyota isn’t at fault here, and it is wrong of him to express his frustrations in such a manner. He just…he feels so _raw_ now, open and vulnerable like an exposed nerve. He needs Jim back. He needs his lover’s bright eyes and soft words to sew together the ragged edges of Spock’s being, to gather and rebuild all the recently-scattered pieces of his carefully-built universe.

He just needs Jim.

Nyota’s voice takes on an uncomfortable note. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Spock sighs. “No, I…the fault is mine. I am not myself right now, Nyota.”

Brief silence. He feels her gaze on him. “He…He’s really it for you, isn’t he?”

The answer requires no hesitation, no thought. “Yes.”

More silence. Beyond the closed doors, Spock’s sensitive hearing just barely picks up the hum of machines and the low murmur of voices. How much longer? Surely Dr. McCoy would have contacted him with an update by now?

Another touch on his arm, light and loving. “I’m glad, you know,” Nyota says, sounding thoughtful. “I didn’t expect to be, honestly, but I am.”

Spock doesn’t answer. What can he say? Nyota nods after a moment, then tilts her head. “You know, though, that the entire ship will have heard about you two by now, right? Sickbay staff’re freakin’ gossip _whores_ when it’s not patient-related.”

Spock knows that too, and thinks he should be worried, or at least guilty about how he acted.

He feels neither. Somehow, Jim being alive overshadows anything negative he could possibly feel about the situation.

Still, more to make Nyota smile than anything else, he offers a customary “I was not aware Dr. McCoy’s staff engaged in acts of prostitution whilst spreading rumors.”

It works; her grin is soft and beautiful as she shakes her head. “So help me, Spock—”

The doors abruptly slide open, admitting McCoy in the middle of pulling off his gloves. He pauses upon seeing them, and immediately scowls at Spock. “You been here the whole time?”

Nyota pats his shoulder and leaves with a soft, “See you later.”

Spock steps forward. “How is the captain?”

McCoy rolls his eyes but beckons Spock to follow him with a jerk of his head, tossing his gloves into a disposal bin as they enter sickbay. “The hatch on that Jeffries tube wasn’t airtight, so he was hypoxic and in the early stages of hypothermia,” he says, leading Spock toward the back of the wing. “Nothing we couldn’t fix, though. He’s sleeping now.”

Spock barely hears him, staring at the figure on the bed as they approach. Jim looks peaceful, lying beneath the covers with his eyes closed, a healthy flush to his skin. If Spock didn’t know what happened earlier, if he hadn’t experienced firsthand the freezing cold and mind-numbing sense of _loss_ when the computer had delivered its damning news, he would think his lover merely sneaking a nap in the middle of his shift.

He swallows and approaches the bed slowly, sliding his hand beneath the covers to curl his fingers around Jim’s own. The scar on that third knuckle is still there. Spock thinks he should ask Jim about it, when his lover awakens.

Next to him, McCoy tilts his head, then clears his throat. “Take a step back.”

Spock blinks, tightening his grip involuntarily on Jim’s hand. “I would prefer to stay—”

“Now, Spock.”

Frowning, he releases his grip, suppressing a cold shudder at the loss of contact, and obeys. He looks at McCoy, aware that he is glaring and not caring a whit. If the doctor separates them now—

Then McCoy steps forward and kicks something on the bottom of the biobed. A soft _beep_ sounds out, and the side of the bed abruptly slides out, doubling its width. Spock blinks, staring at this new space next to Jim, the perfect size for himself, and then turns to look at McCoy, at a sudden loss as to what to say.

McCoy saves him the trouble, tossing him a pillow. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” the doctor snaps, before turning, yanking the privacy curtain closed, and walking away.

 Spock is left looking down at the biobed, at Jim, who continues to sleep undisturbed. Gently, he sets the pillow down and then eases himself carefully onto the bed. It holds his weight and he breathes out, curling closer, and rests his head on Jim’s chest, closing his eyes and listening to the steady heartbeat beneath.

A slow shift, a soft exhalation of breath, and warm fingers brush through his hair. “Mm. Hello.”

Spock lifts his head, sees blue, and feels happiness drip down his spine. “Hello, Jim. How are you feeling?”

Jim blinks, a lethargic movement. “Little tired,” he mumbles, words slightly slurred. “Kind of have a headache…but otherwise, okay.” He sighs. “Considering.”

Spock blinks. “Considering what?”

Jim closes his eyes. “That I could be a bunch of frozen, exploded bits right now.”

The shiver is involuntary, and Spock buries his face in his lover’s neck, breathing in his scent. “I am glad you are not.”

“Yeah, me too.” Jim takes a slow breath, in and out. “It’s thanks to you, though, you know.”

Spock doesn’t move. “How so?”

“Couldn’t leave you.” Another slow breath, half-yawn, half-sigh. “When the hull started to go, knew I had to do everything I could to stay alive, for you. Hell,” and he chuckles, quietly, “I didn’t actually expect that Jeffries tube thing to even _work_. But I figured…any chance, however small, right?”

Spock swallows. He wonders what it must have been like, Jim watching as fractures splintered the hull, as he stumbled toward the hatch, the ragged desperation as he input commands and crawled inside the tube, as he lay there slowly losing consciousness in the rapidly-depleting air, thinking of Spock…

And then he remembers his own harrowed run to Deck Five, the part of himself that had cracked and splintered when he saw Schova’s body, the honey-warm relief when they discovered Jim. And he thinks they may be more similar than either of them ever expected.

Beneath him Jim hums, fingers tracing nonsense patterns over the back of Spock’s neck. “Bones says I should be outta here by tomorrow,” he murmurs. “You still on for Chekov’s party?”

Spock does lift his head at that. “I believe our plan is no longer necessary,” he admits. “My reaction to your survival may have been…overzealous.”

“Oh.” Jim blinks, then smiles. “Well. That’s one way to do it.”

Spock tilts his head. “You are not upset?”

“What? Of course not.” Jim frowns. “Spock, it doesn’t particularly matter _how_ we come out—although I’ll admit, I would’ve preferred something with less running for my life and slowly turning into a popsicle. The crew was gonna find out in the end one way or another, right? So no, I’m not mad.” He pauses, and his smile grows warmer. “Besides, you’re right: they’re family. They deserve to know.”

 And he makes it so simple, so easy. The sudden surge of emotion is so strong Spock feels the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes. He swallows and whispers, “I love you.”

He doesn’t say it often, the words always feeling awkward and strange on his tongue. But he says it now, without thought or hesitation, and Jim just smiles back at him, strong and beautiful.

“Of that, Spock, I have no doubt.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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